


hear me now while i'm falling down

by coffee_counts_as_a_meal



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Goes through into canon tho, Insurgency Study, New Republic Slander, No Beta We Die Like Alderaanians, OFC is kind of an asshole, Older Man/Younger Woman, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Trauma Bonding, Unreliable Narrator kind of, but i love her, tags to be updated with each chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-27 21:27:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_counts_as_a_meal/pseuds/coffee_counts_as_a_meal
Summary: "I can bring you in warm, or I can bring you in cold."They stared each other down in silence for several long moments. Neither moving. He was still as a statue, blaster raised, finger resting on the trigger and helmet tilted in her direction. Cold. Unfeeling.Then, inexplicably, she started to laugh."Are y - are you serious?" she choked, lowering her own blaster and doubling over with the force of her giggles. "Oh, stars, you are...how long did it take you to come up with that?"The Mandalorian said nothing. The Mandalorian found this entire situation to be highly unfunny and was now very confused."Is that your, like, go-to line?" The bounty went on. "Do you practice in the mirror?""Do you /want/ to get shot?""...I'll take that as a yes."[another godforsaken Mandalorian/Original Female Character fic. Surprise surprise. Slowburn, enemies to friends to lovers. Companion fic to "hymn for the exiled"]
Relationships: Cara Dune/Fennec Shand, Cara Dune/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda & Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character/Original Female Character, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	1. prologue.

Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the Wise? It's not a story the Jedi would -

Oh. Oh, you have.

Uh.

Okay then.

Well...have I ever told you about the legendary Skywalker twins, how they defeated the evil Empire and brought peace and prosperity back to the galaxy -

Shit, you've heard that one too?

Fuck. Okay.

Well, this is awkward. Now I just look like an asshole.

So...what story _haven't_ you heard? Though, I guess if you haven't heard it, you couldn't tell me - I got lots of stories, kid, you just gotta pick one.

You want a scary story? Action? Romance? All of the above? Heroes and villains and those guys that are a lil bit in-between, y'know, what the fuck you call 'em, anti-heroes? You want princesses? Knights in shining armor? Princesses in shining armor? Are you _sure_ you don't wanna hear about Leia Skywalker, the Huttslayer, General, and overall Boss-Ass Bitch?

Okay. How about her son, Edgelord Supreme?

(No? Okay, don't blame you there.)

How about a simpler story? Have I ever told you about Operation Stardust, how a rogue team of rebels managed to steal the plans that would end up saving countless planets from the Empire's most dangerous -

Dammit. _Dammit._

Okay. Fine. What the fuck do you want to hear? I'm all out of stories - the legends, the epics, you got me stumped. I don't got any more. I don't -

Well.

...okay, maybe I've got one. But you probably don't want to hear it, seriously. It's not Important. Not Life-Changing, or Awe-Inspiring, not Galaxy-Moving or even remotely mind-blowing. It's a very boring story, in comparison.

Are you sure you don't want to hear about how Darth Maul survived being chopped in half and thrown down a reactor shaft? It's pretty fucking gory, dude.

No?

Okay then. Here we go.

This is the small story of one man. A man with no destiny, no fate determined by the Force - nobody important, really, in the grand scheme of things. A good man, to be sure. Maybe that's what makes all the difference. Good men are hard to find in a galaxy like this one.

And though it is a simple story, it _does_ have everything I talked about. Heroes. Villains. Some people in-between. Armor. Tons of armor, both literal and metaphorical. No princesses, though, sorry to say, though there is a disgraced insurgent and I guess you could call Bo-Katan something like an heiress -

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

It's a simple story, about, among other things - a scared and lonely child with no home; a woman with too much blood on her hands; and the bounty hunter who loved them both.

Let me tell you about the Mandalorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. wasn't going to post this for a good while. but i am an asian woman living in the united states right now and i've been straight up dissociating for the last few days and retreating into coping mechanisms bc reality's too fucked up to deal with right now. so. here's my comfort fic. whatever. i don't know when this is getting updated bc its not finished like "hymn for the exiled" and a completely different style but the same character but. whatever. idk. 
> 
> also narration style is "me trying to tell a star wars story to my best friend" bc i love narrators with voices. shout out to the book thief for being my childhood defining piece of literature, baybee.


	2. i. i will not ask you where you came from

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: alcohol mention, mentions of canon-typical violence

People tended to think of Greef Karga as really That Bitch. 

In truth, he was a simple man with a simple job.

He preferred it that way, especially with the last few years being as...complicated as they were. He had only joined the Bounty Hunter’s Guild just before the Empire’s collapse and the subsequent loss of the Imperial contracts that once kept so many hunters in its employ. With that in mind, he had recognized the need for a liaison of sorts. An expediter, if you will. Someone to guide this sect of raggedy young (or...not so young, actually, no one really knew how old Cradossk was and no one was brave or stupid enough to ask) hotheads and gunslingers to work that would keep both their pockets and bellies full. 

It had been a stroke of genius, that realization, and it was the reason why Karga could now relax, sinking back into his favorite booth at the cantina in Nevarro, nursing a finger of Corellian whiskey and watching the afternoon saunter by. 

A simple man, a simple job, assigning bounties to the never-ending stream of hunters in his care. A job where he barely had to lift a finger, let alone a blaster. There were certainly worse places to be, four years after the Battle of Endor.

It was on this particular afternoon, however, that he was reminded of how complicated his job could be sometimes. 

Or perhaps not his job so much as his employees.

One particular nameless employee, to be precise. 

The cantina wasn’t as busy as it could have been. Three o’clock in the afternoon was peak market hours for Nevarro’s largest city, which meant that most of the citizens were out on the bazaar, haggling with the many merchants that crowded the old stone streets and archways. Still, there were a handful of boisterous hunters gathered around the bar and a few chirping droids underfoot, not to mention the pair of Chadra-Fan bickering in their native language across the table just a few feet to Karga’s left. It was a perfectly normal afternoon as friend greeted friend, coworker bantered with coworker. All was well within the Guild. 

That normality came to a sudden halt when the door to the cantina opened and a tall, imposing figure stepped into the room. 

Karga did not move, knowing already exactly who it was from the silence that had settled like a curtain across the bar. The heavily armored stranger, paying no attention to the hushed murmurs and dirty looks, had already made his way across the cantina and slipped into the booth before Karga finally raised his eyes from his drink, only to be greeted by his own visage reflected off the shiny beskar helmet this newcomer wore. 

Impenetrable. Karga remembered something a mentor had told him, some cycles ago, when he had just begun his descent into the world of bounty hunting - _eyes are the windows to the soul, Greef. Never trust a man who won’t meet your gaze. He always has something to hide._

 _Well,_ thought Karga, as the expressionless armored man sitting across from him tossed an assortment of tracking fobs onto the cantina table, he certainly did not trust the Mandalorian. But damn if he didn’t like him all the same. 

“Faster than a bassa hound on a hunt, eh, Mando?” he said, allowing a proud, almost fond smile to spread across his features. “I should have known.”

The Mandalorian said nothing in return. This was not abnormal. In the years the bounty hunter had been in Karga’s employ, he rarely spoke of anything other than quarries and credits. But what he lacked in words, he more than made up for in results.

Which is why Karga did not bother to lower his voice as he continued. “I’ll do better next time, maybe find you a real challenge. Quality over quantity, isn’t that right?”

Over at the bar, a few of the more curious ( _eavesdropping_ ) members of the Guild scowled.One Devaronian even hissed, baring his razor-sharp incisors. Six bounties assigned to the Mandalorian meant six chits they would never get, six payouts they would never see. But if the knowledge that he was the most unpopular person in the room at the moment bothered the Mandalorian, there was no way of knowing. He certainly did not move a muscle, did not even flinch.

Karga liked to imagine that he was embarrassed, all the same.

“Can’t imagine you had much trouble with them, even with that bail jumper on Nar Shaddaa. Still, just the travel time alone -”

“The payment?”

The voice was modulated from the helmet; a low, slightly husky crackle. Still, it was enough to pull Karga from his momentary diversion of riling up the man to the task at hand. Business, as always and usual. 

He signaled to one of his men standing by the door, who quickly left the cantina to help unload the quarries from the Mandalorian’s ship. With that underway, Karga then slid a stack of credits across the table - the normal Guild rate for six successful bounties, minus his own commission, of course.

The Mandalorian swept it away without blinking an eye. Or at least that was the assumption. No small talk, no griping about the cut. Another one of the things Karga appreciated about their working relationship. 

“So,” he hummed, now with that out of the way. “I assume you’ll be wanting a bit of a break, take some time to celebrate your success?”

It was only partially a joke, one that Karga knew would garner little to no reaction. The Mandalorian turned his head ever-so-slightly, the only physical indication that he heard what was said. 

“No? You just got back, after all -”

“Is there anything else?”

Anyone with a lesser acquaintance with the bounty hunter would have missed the thin thread of impatience in that vocoded question. As it was, Karga could barely allow himself a moment of triumph at having finally achieved something like a human response. It wasn’t like Mandalorians were easy to find these days. 

So Karga cut to the chase, pulling a single bounty puck out of his purse and setting it carefully in front of the bounty hunter, who looked as unimpressed as one could be while having their entire face hidden.

“That’s it?”

“It’s a direct contract,” he explained. “Straight from Hulo Largo himself.”

“Hulo Largo?” The pieces, slowly coming together. “The Largo syndicate on Esseles?”

Karga nodded. “The Largos have been at odds with their rivals, the Ferlani, since the time of the Old Republic. When the war ended, they seemed to finally gain an advantage, but recently a handful of their higher-ups have been involved in some rather...messy accidents. Hulo wants to put an end to that.” 

The Mandalorian reached out and touched the puck with a single gloved finger. A holographic image appeared, which he studied for several moments in silence. 

“That’s all the way in the Darpa sector,” he finally said, settling back in his seat. “I don’t usually go into the Core if I can help it.”

“Trust me, for this price, you’ll want to,” Karga appeased. “It’s why I’m only offering it on its own. The reward is worth at least five times the price of the fuel to get there.”

The unspoken implication of such a high price hung between them like the burnt out cantina lightbulb suspended above their heads. Over by the bar, the hissing Devarorian from earlier was now itching for a fight with a female Nikto who had been using his vibroblade as a toothpick. The Chadra-Fan had apparently resolved their squabble and were now happily slurping down bowls of dragweed broth. 

Karga waited. He told himself he wasn’t nervous, he had no reason to be. It was true that both of the hunters he’d sent out on this job a whole month ago had yet to return, but that could mean anything. It was true the price was suspiciously high for a single target, and had only been climbing over the past several weeks, but if anything that would just be more incentive. The Mandalorian had not failed or turned down a job yet, and it was in _both_ of their best interests that he took this one. 

(Mando, of course, didn’t _need_ to know those particular particulars, obviously. Should have been a piece of cake, for someone with his experience.

Besides. The guy was, to put it in our planet’s vernacular, _expensive as fuck._ )

Finally, the Mandalorian grabbed the puck off the table and stood, slinging his pulse rifle over his shoulder as he went. “I’ll take it.”

“Fantastic.” Karga grinned. “Happy hunting, Mando. Don’t work too hard.”

The Mandalorian, as expected, gave no indication he heard the gentle rib as he headed back towards the door, his cape (an oddly frivolous style choice, in Karga’s opinion, but he supposed when one has a body count in the several hundreds one can wear whatever the hell he pleases) whipping behind him, leaving only stares and whispers in his wake. 

The moment the bounty hunter disappeared, slipping back out into the dusty streets, Karga sighed and swirled his whiskey around his glass. The relief at having passed off the bounty was now giving way to an odd sense of exhaustion, just from that brief interaction. Mandalorians carried a certain intensity, whether stemming from their strict religious doctrines or their reputation as fierce fighters with a code as impenetrable as the armor they donned. This Mandalorian was no exception, though his armor was starting to look a little worse for wear. Perhaps beskar, like the warriors who once wore it, was a little harder to find these days. Maybe the legends weren’t all that they were cracked up to be. 

Ah, well. Karga downed the last few drops lingering in his glass and wiped his mouth. It wasn’t his problem anymore. The Mandalorian would succeed or fail by his own merits, and he himself had nothing to lose and everything to gain by it. 

A simple transaction. A simple man. Karga signaled the bartender for another drink and sat back to enjoy the fight that had finally broken out at the bar.,

Being completely honest? He thought the Devaronian didn’t stand a kriffing chance.

* * *

It wasn’t until the Mandalorian had broken past Nevarro’s atmosphere and made the jump to hyperspace that he turned on the auto-navigational system and stood from his pilot’s chair. While his trusty Razor Crest sped past systems at the speed of light, he slowly and carefully climbed down the ladder from the cockpit into the cargo hold.

The Crest was a pre-Imperial patrol vehicle, with every bit of space utilized for maximum efficiency. It was, to be frank, kind of a piece of junk. Like a flying 1979 Honda Civic, except that a Honda Civic would be bigger and easier to maintain. Not that it mattered much in the end. Ultimately, it was a place to sleep, a place to eat, a way to get around the galaxy, and, for the moment, a place to lick his wounds and gather himself for the next mission. 

With a grunt, the Mandalorian dropped himself onto a trunk that contained tools and parts for one of the Crest’s front engines, stretching out his limbs and pulling off his gloves. 

First things first - the knife wound from that bail jumper on Nar Shaddaa was healing as well as it could. The bandages were still dry, which was a good sign. The Tribe’s healer had stressed the importance of regularly applying bacta to ward off infection, but that wasn’t exactly something he planned on prioritizing or keeping in stock. Bounty hunting wasn’t exactly the kind of career that came with benefits like stellar health insurance, to put it mildly. Like most injuries he attained on the job, the Mandalorian figured all he could really do was tread gingerly and hope for the best. 

Next, his vambraces. The whipcord launcher on the right wrist had been damaged while retrieving that gambler camping out on Lothal a week prior. Despite its subsequent repair, the Mandalorian had noted that he needed to test it for himself and get used to the new calibration.

Not that he didn’t trust the Armorer’s work - far from it, actually. There had never been an occasion where he’d been by to drop off a bounty and did not stop at the covert’s hidden base in the sewers of Nevarro to seek advice at the very least.

The Armorer had been, of course, both pleased and displeased to see him this time around. 

“We had noted your absence as longer than usual,” she’d said coolly, inclining her head in greeting as he entered her forge. “We thought perhaps you’d perished in your journey.”

“I took a larger order this time,” he had replied, taking a seat at the low table in front of the hearth and placing a small fabric purse on the surface. “With larger rewards.” 

The Armorer took her time responding, instead choosing to carefully scoop a collection of liquid metal from the fire and pour it into a mold to cool. It was only once this task was finished that she turned to face her brother-in-arms. 

Even with her eyes hidden behind her golden horned helmet, her gaze was intense as she studied the Mandalorian, taking note of the state of his armor - definitely past its prime, scuffed and worn after years of deflecting stray blaster bolts and blades. “Your right pauldron will have to be replaced soon.”

“It can last a little longer,” the Mandalorian insisted. “The steel required is in short supply.”

The Armorer tilted her head. “You know the state of our armory better than myself?”

“I know that what we have should be saved, and that my armor’s integrity can withstand a few more missions.”

“Do you over or underrate your own importance with regard to the rest of the Tribe?” 

“I make no assumption. I am at the Tribe’s disposal.”

“Under it is, then,” the Armorer concluded, finally lowering herself down into a cross-legged position across the table from him. She tugged at the strings of the purse and slowly, with calloused, burn-scarred fingers, counted out the credits. “This is a very generous offering. How many bounties?”

“Six.”

“Have you taken any credits for your own personal use?”

“Only what I need for fuel and food costs on the way to Esseles.”

“You do understand this is more than a usual tithe.”

“The excess is meant to go -“

“To the foundlings, yes. As expected.” The barest hint of a smile, cloaked by the metallic static of her voice through the helmet. The Armorer swept the credits back into the bag. “Your right vambrace is in obvious need of repair. I should have it in working condition by the time you leave.”

“Thank you.”

“And take care with that stab wound,” she added, as the Mandalorian unclipped his vambrace and handed it across the table. “The Tribe’s Healer is down the hall. You know where to find her.”

“I don’t want to trouble her -"

“Go. You’re no use to us dead from infection.” It was said with an air of finality, as the Armorer slowly stood and fixed the Mandalorian with a piercing stare. “This is the Way.”

“This is the Way,” he had replied solemnly, before turning and leaving the forge. 

Now the Mandalorian tested the whipcord launcher, being careful to aim it away from the Crest’s carbonite freezing chamber. It was working well, albeit with a bit of a delay between deployment and discharge. But nothing he couldn’t account for in the heat of battle.

With that done, he unclipped the vambraces and set them down on the trunk next to him. His pauldrons followed ( _kriff,_ she had been dead-on about the right one, it probably wouldn’t hold up against one good solid blaster hit), then his chest plate. The armor was a mismatched set, scavenged from a mix of downed Stormtroopers and other bounty hunters he’d encountered during his travels, painted a sandy brown with the original durasteel alloy shining through in the worn down places. True beskar armor was rare these days, ever since the Great Purge, though elders in the Tribe used to whisper about the merits of the once legendary steel - how it was one of the strongest metals in the galaxy, how it could deflect nearly any type of blaster, how it had made the ancient Mandalorians a symbol of fear throughout the systems...

Well. The Tribe made do with their durasteel alloy blends and what little beskar they could spare, and the elders whispered a lot less nowadays. And sitting in the cargo hold of his ship, cursing under his breath as he struggled to unclasp his thigh and shin guards, the Mandalorian couldn’t really blame them. 

Finally, having peeled off all his armor save for the helmet (the only piece made entirely of pure beskar), the Mandalorian stopped and took stock. The armor would have to be cleaned, obviously, and the magnetic circuitry on the underplates beneath it examined. He’d have to go through the weapons locker, make sure everything was accounted for and in proper condition. Maybe if he was lucky, he’d have time to choke down a couple of protein cubes or take a sonic shower. Or sleep. One of three.

Contrary to what one might think, the armor was not that heavy. It had been well-crafted enough, despite the lack of preferred materials, and the Mandalorian had worn it for so long that nowadays he barely noticed it’s weight. 

Yet now, clad only in his cotton twill flight suit, flak vest, and helmet, the Mandalorian felt as though a weight had been added to his shoulders, not lifted. It was easier to forget in the cantinas and sewers and dark alleys of some of the sketchiest planets in the galaxy how exhausting the work of a bounty hunter could be. Easier to remember now, hurtling through space towards the Darpa sector, alone and hungry and cold ( _dank ferrik, has the heater broken again? yet another thing to fix...)_ and still too bone-weary to do little more than sit and try to wrangle out that one song that was playing inside the Nevarro cantina that had been stuck in his head like some kind of annoying earworm ever since.

The Mandalorian shook his head, as though to dislodge any straggling notes, to no avail, before finally reaching up and removing his helmet. He did not set the piece on the trunk next to him with the rest of his armor, instead holding it carefully in his lap. 

_It’ll take a few hours to get to the edge of the Outer Rim,_ he reasoned, leaning and pressing his back against the wall of his ship, the metal a cool and solid relief to his aching muscles. _And then if I avoid the major trade routes, it’ll take at least a day more to get to Esseles._

The urge to shut his eyes was strong, but he knew if he did, he’d most definitely fall asleep in the cargo hold and wouldn’t get anything done. It wouldn’t be the first time, either. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the puck with the bounty’s information. 

Karga’s desperation for him to take this job was clear, but studying the target’s holographic image, the Mandalorian couldn’t for the life of him understand why. It seemed like a relatively simple job, especially for such an obscene price. 

But. Hey. Gift tauntauns, wasn’t that the expression? 

He shut off the puck and tucked it away with a sigh. Maybe sleep wouldn’t be so bad to prioritize for once. There were no mirrors on the Crest (by both design and personal choice), but his own reflection in the beskar helmet betrayed the circles under his eyes that had only darkened over the past week or so. 

_A few minutes...can’t hurt,_ he thought, shifting on the box to curl up on his side, still holding the helmet in his arms. He knew that the pallet he’d set up in the storage bay by the vacc tube was mere feet away, but at this moment he just...didn’t want to. And no one was watching, anyway. 

Just a few moments. Then he’d get up and get ready, put his helmet back on and prepare himself for the mission ahead. 

Just a little.

Just a little longer...

* * *

_Just a little longer..._

_If he holds his breath for just a little longer, maybe the screaming will stop. Maybe the hatch door will open, and Father will lift him back up, and Mother will hold his hand as they walk and skip together back to their flat and eat the crackling puddings that he’s been looking forward to all day._

_Just a little longer. Maybe the rumbling will stop. He buries his face in his arms, trying to steady his trembling breaths. Just a little longer. They’ll come back. They always come back. They promised, it’ll all be over soon._

_The screaming doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop. He covers his ears with his hands, scrunches his eyes tight, and tries to ignore it all - the shells screaming across the sky, the people screaming on the ground, the sound of his own heart blood pounding so loud, so loud, surely he’ll be found..._

_Just a little longer. Just a little longer..._

_The hatch doors rattle violently, a blast that threatens to flatten him against the ground even as he crouches, curling into a ball at the back of the cellar. Then they are flung open, sunlight blazing through, smoke curling around his throat._

_He looks up, his mouth falling open in a silent scream that goes on._

_And on._

_And on._

_He cannot stop screaming. Even when, finally, he wakes._

* * *

The Ion Sandbox was the largest, most luxurious cantina in Calamar. With three floors, at least twenty-five different drinks on tap (plus more if you know exactly how to ask), live-performance bandstands, a fully functional kitchen, an open-air hangar, and a VIP lounge for those desiring something a little more private, it was a first-rate establishment, favored by both the high-class politicians of Esseles’s capital city and the more seedy underworld. 

Both sides, it should be mentioned, tipped handsomely. Staff positions within the Sandbox were highly coveted due to this fact, with bartenders often able to make up to nearly half of their monthly rent in a single good night. 

But for Tagta Mavida, working the second half of the double shift she’d picked up from her coworker who had “unexpectedly won a pair of tickets to _The Brief Reign of Future Wraiths_ ”, tonight was not a good night. Under normal circumstances, Mavida would have told him “fuck your opera,” but Life Day was coming up fast, and she could honestly use the extra credits to actually buy her kids nice presents for once, so she had agreed to cover for him against her better judgement. 

This was a decision she swiftly regretted, as the following occurred in the span of two minutes: a full-out brawl breaking out between a Rodian and Blutopian over realizing they’d shared a common lover without knowing it; a Jawa who’d apparently wolfed down too many lava buns suddenly expelling them in a corner, much to the disgust of the patrons around it; a bachelorette party occurring in one of the booths, getting more and more inebriated by the second; plus at least half a dozen other customers gathered around the bar, clamoring for her attention, each demanding a drink more complicated than the last.

The Twi’lek pinched the bridge of her nose and took a deep, calming breath to keep herself from throttling the nearest patron. Finally, she pasted on a smile and tossed her bright red lekku over her shoulders. 

“What can I get you?”

The customer, a Weequay regular she knew by face but not by name, swayed in his seat. “Uh...kin I getta...Juri juice, I wanna Juri juice...”

Mavida nodded, grabbing a jar from under the bar, pouring the obscenely bright liquid into a clear cup, and pressing it into his hands. “Got the credits for it?”

He grunted, shoving a stack in her direction. Mavida swept it all into the deep pockets of her apron - _a little for the till, a little for me. Nobody’s the wiser._

“Enjoy your juice,” she said with a smile before moving onto the next customers, a pair of humans flirting so heavily they were practically sharing a bar stool. The male was unfamiliar, but had that Look about him, the one that said he must have spent the entirety of his teenage years as a poster boy for the Rebel Alliance and now lived and breathed for the New Republic - uniform spick-and-span and golden hair carefully shorn, wide grin and bright eyes currently fixed on the young woman sitting next to him, locked like a TIE fighter on an enemy ship.

The female was another regular Mavida recognized, smiling back, leaning her elbows on the bar and letting her long dark hair fall over her shoulder, purposefully revealing the curve of her neck to Golden Boy’s open-mouthed stare. 

Mavida allowed herself a smirk - she’d seen this trick before, time and time again. She finished the drink she’d been working on for the past several minutes and slid it across the bar towards them both, momentarily breaking the spell.

“Your usual, Neassa?”

Neassa blinked, caught off-guard in her concentrated flirtation, before wrapping her fingers around the stem of the glass and lifting it in Mavida’s direction with a smile. 

“That’s why you’re my favorite, Tagta.”

“What is that?” Golden Boy asked curiously, craning his head to look into the glass. “You come here often?” 

Mavida rolled her eyes at the cheesiness of the line, but rather than being put-off by it, Neassa seemed amused. She tilted the glass out to her companion, who held it gingerly between two fingers and took a cursory sniff.

“A little something of my own invention, _muirnīn._ Shesharilian vodka, lime, ginger, mineral water...oh, and a shot of pear tihaar,” the woman added as Golden Boy managed to down a cautious sip, only to end up choking, red-faced and sputtering, looking like his eyes were about to burst out of his skull. “Should have mentioned that first.”

“You know, they say you can use tihaar to degrease engine parts,” Mavida chimed in good-naturedly, enjoying very much the way Golden Boy looked like he was dying, obviously not expecting the way the triple-distilled liquor would burn his mouth and throat. “Here, honey, this’ll help.”

She pushed a mug of blue bantha milk towards him, which he quickly chugged. Chuckling to herself, Mavida moved onto the next customer, a Torgruta who simply gestured for her to refill his glass. So she went on, from patron to patron, filling orders, cleaning up spills, watching the bouncer finally show up to eject the Rothian and Blutopian from the establishment. She could hear the fight still continuing from the street below, the yells and sound of blows carrying up and through the expansive windows of the cantina, only to finally be silenced by two echoing blaster shots.

Yikes. 

Mavida whistled under her breath, absentmindedly signing a silent prayer with her lekku before picking up a rag. As she wiped down the bar, she took a silent headcount on who was left to serve, what other fires to put out, had someone called a droid yet to clean up that Jawa puke by the potted plants...

Her attention was suddenly drawn to movement out of the corner of her eye - Neassa, grabbing Golden Boy’s hand and pulling him off his seat, leading him towards the door, Golden Boy wearing a soppy grin. 

“Hey!”

They stopped in their tracks. Mavida tossed her rag back on the counter and put her hands on her hips. “Your tab?”

Golden Boy’s face fell, and his hand immediately dropped Neassa’s to dig into his pockets. She, in contrast, just laughed, a ringing bell-like sound that carried across the noisy bar. 

“You know I’m good for it.”

“That’s what you said last time, hon. Don’t make me call your bluff.”

Neassa was unfazed by the vague threat. Mavida liked her more for it. “Look, you know where to find me. Besides.” She tilted her head, a sudden gleam coming to her eyes. “I’ll send a friend by later to pay my bill, you have my word.”

Mavida raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I know where you live.”

“That you do,” Neassa replied cheerfully, giving a salute and looping her arm through Golden Boy’s once more. “C’mon, _muirnīn,_ we’re burning moonlight. I’ll see you around, Tagta! Say hi to the babies for me!”

Mavida shook her head, unable to keep a fond smile off her face as the pair left, Golden Boy practically tripping over his feet in his eagerness. _Crazy kids._ She pondered briefly what it must be like to be that young again. The thought was only momentary though, as the bachelorette party in the booth stirred, calling for another round, and she had to once again throw herself into the whirlwind of drink and food orders. 

It wasn’t even half an hour later that she became aware of a new guest in the cantina. How a hush seemed to fall over the normally loud and boisterous crowd at the arrival of this stranger, how the entire vibe of the room seemed to shift. 

He was not the largest creature in the room, but certainly held a presence. Maybe it was the full-body armor, worn though it was, accentuated with a helmet that must have been made of real beskar, what with the way it shone in the dim cantina light. Maybe it was the way this guest carried himself with a quiet confidence, the barest suggestion of the lethality that lurked beneath with every step he took towards the bar. 

_Or,_ Mavida thought privately to herself, keeping her eyes lowered to the glass she had already finished polishing a full minute ago, _maybe it’s the fact that it’s not every day a Mandalorian shows up in Calamar._

(Maybe it was the fact that it was common knowledge among most of the Inner Rim that _if_ a Mandalorian showed up in your city, someone is most definitely going to get fucked up. 

...yeah, no, Mavida _definitely_ should have said “fuck your opera,” and stayed home tonight, Life Day be damned.)

Paying no attention to the sudden quiet that seemed to herald his arrival, or the fact that there were now eyes watching him from every direction, the Mandalorian stopped at the counter in front of Mavida. Somehow, even though it was impossible to see his eyes through the dark visor of his helmet, his gaze was heavy. Searching. Studying. 

Mavida (measuring her breathing, trying to stay calm) set the glass back underneath the counter and leaned her elbows on the surface, doing her best to look this newcomer in the eye. Visor. Whatever.

“What can I get for you?”

The Mandalorian simply pulled out a holopuck and slid it in front of her. A blue-white glow flickered in the reflection of his visor, a three-dimensional image of a target with a familiar face. 

Of course. He was Guild, she really should have seen it coming.

Mavida pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, but didn’t say another word. The bounty hunter seemed to take her silence as confirmation. 

“Do you recognize her?” 

“Maybe I do,” Mavida replied carefully. “If I did, what would it be worth?”

To be fair, the Mandalorian seemed like he was prepared for this question. There wasn’t a moment’s hesitation before he set down a stack of credits and switched it for the holopuck. Mavida was careful to keep her expression as blank as possible, but inwardly her mind boggled at the amount - nearly more than she could be expected to make on tips tonight, certainly more than enough to pay for that new gravboard her oldest son had had his eye on for months.

“Yeah, I’ve seen her. She arrived on the planet about five standard months ago,” Mavida parsed her words slowly, not looking at the Mandalorian directly while she very deliberately picked up each credit, one by one, and slipped it into her apron. “Comes around every few nights or so. Good girl. Not too much trouble, compared to most that hang around here.”

When Mavida finished sweeping the credits into her pockets, she kept her hands hidden and leaned her elbows on the counter, observing the bounty hunter through her eyelashes. He was eerily still, somewhere on the edge of (but not quite) tense. With the way the room was arranged, his back had to be to the door in order to face her; a position he apparently disliked, given how his gloved hand seemed to constantly drift dangerously close to his blaster, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. She had a feeling even with his seemingly full focus and attention on her he was still scanning the room for potential enemies, noting every living being and the threat they posed.

Well. Well.

“Of course, there’s the rumors,” she drawled, pushing herself off the counter and rummaging through the cabinet below the bar for another glass. “They say she runs with the Ferlani boys, they say she’s sleeping with the oldest son. Some say, no, it’s the head of security she’s after. There’s even a story that Ferlani’s wife gave her a special key to her private rooms, that they’ve been carrying on an affair for Maker knows how long...”

“I’m not here for rumors,” the Mandalorian cut in. “Can you tell me where she is, or am I going to have to keep asking around until I find out?” 

Oh. Oh _hell no._

That was a workplace incident report just _waiting_ to happen. The energy in the room was already crackling with tension, greedy eyes from the shadows lurking in every corner. Mavida could name at least five regular Sandbox guests off the top of her head who would be down to throw hands with a Mandalorian for absolutely _any_ reason - and that didn’t even include Po-Awl the line cook, who she was pretty sure came to work high on death sticks more often than not. 

So Mavida considered her options and came to a conclusion quickly. Loyalty to a frequent customer was one thing. Wanting to get through her shift without any more incidents was another. Besides, with a Mandalorian on her tail, the girl was already as good as dead.

“She lives on the east side of the city,” Mavida set the glass on the counter, flipping through her mental filing for the exact address. “Resnan neighborhood. Can’t quite recall the apartment number.”

If the Mandalorian was familiar with the area, one of the poorest, most crime-ridden parts of the city, he didn’t give any indication. All he did was tilt his helmet ever so slightly, as if unimpressed with the quality of information. “Anything else?”

Mavida shrugged. “She left about an hour ago with a little soldier boy toy. If you swing by the entertainment district, you might catch her at one of the hotels there. The New Republic likes to quarter their administrative intelligence corps in style.” 

Well, _that_ definitely got his attention. Maybe it was the specificity. Maybe it was the sudden realized opportunity to catch a target with her (literal) pants down. Either way, something about the Mandalorian’s energy changed, seemed to snap into focus as he nodded and turned to leave without so much of “good-bye.” 

Mavida felt something like irritation prickle up inside her. Rude. She was half-tempted to stick her tongue out childishly at the back of his stupid, shiny metal head, when a sudden idea occurred to her. A reminder, of sorts.

“Hey! Mando! One more thing!”

He stopped halfway across the bar, only slightly turning his entire helmet over his broad shoulders to look back at her.

Mavida pressed her palms against the counter and leaned forward, grinning despite herself, despite the intensity in the Mandalorian’s silent inquiry and the eyes on her from all over the room at this point.

No, she was going to have _fun,_ now.

“She also said _you_ were paying her tab,” she jabbed her finger in his direction with glee, as the Mandalorian now turned his entire body back to face her in alarm. “So - time to cough it up, hon.”

Two cocktails with extra shots of tihaar? 28 credits.

A single mug of bantha milk? 7 credits. 

Neassa’s accumulative bill of unpaid drinks from the last month and a half? 185 credits. 

Catching a Mandalorian, one of the warriors of legend, off-guard and making him pay the tab for his own bounty? 

Priceless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments from my best friend as i was writing this chapter:
> 
> \- "all I can think of is the John mulaney bit about the bartenders on law and order who know everybody"  
> "that is absolutely the vibe I'm going for"  
> "'Why? Did somethin...HAPPEn to her?'"  
> -"would saying 'be down to throw hands' in a narrative sense be too out of place for star wars"  
> "absolutely it would"
> 
> also i write in excessive detail bc i'm fascinated with the idea of writing this story for someone who has never seen the mandalorian and still trying to make it make sense. make of that what you will.


End file.
